Aubade
by JustTellHer
Summary: There are many hours of darkness before the dawn. In the aftermath of the explosion, Tony and Ziva take refuge from the nights with each other, and find something else along the way. Spoilers for all of s9 and a few loosely based spoilers for s10.
1. Night 2

**A/N: This story has been floating around my head all summer, and it's finally almost all out on paper. Therefore, i'll be publishing it over the next two days before the season premiere to tide me over until the premiere! 2 days left! Hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I do own the rights to NCIS or any of it's characters. **

** tZt**

**2.**

Rain is pounding on the pavement outside and lightening is crackling over head when Ziva finds herself outside the worn wooden door to his apartment. She's not quite sure what she's doing here at half past midnight; after all, she has been through explosions before; theoretically, she should be handling this the best out of all of them. However, forty-eight hours of no sleep, hospital waiting rooms, and too many lifeless bodies have led her here on autopilot, frozen in front his door, hating herself for the display of weakness.

"So, are you planning on standing out here all night, or…?"

Tony's voice causes her to jump, her eyes snapping up from their intense scrutiny of the hallway carpet to meet his pale green stare. Dark circles outline his eyes, his face drawn, body leaning heavily against the doorframe, a mirror of her own exhaustion. She tilts her head slightly, fixing him with a concerned gaze; it's clear she's not the only one not sleeping.

Wordlessly he steps aside, jerking his head gently toward the living room. Following quietly, she lowers herself onto the living room sofa, twisting her hands nervously. Contrary to office gossip, it's been years since she randomly showed up at his apartment, and she has no real excuses or reasons for her rekindling of the action now; only that his presence allows the panicked tightness in her chest to decompress slightly, and that for the first time in her life, she is terrified of being alone in the wake of tragedy.

With a small groan, he settles beside her, resting an elbow against the back the couch and fixing her with a tired smile.

"Well," he attempts lightly, "do you want beer or tequila for this party?"

She smiles feebly, "Can there not be both?"

He laughs, her smile widens. She picks a random movie from his collection while he grabs the glasses.

In the end, they don't say much, shots are poured in relative silence, and beers are sipped in time to the quiet dialogue of a movie she's not paying any attention to as they both stare at the screen in an attempt to forget the horror currently playing out around them. Eventually, the liquor lulls them to sleep as she curls into the corner of his couch, his steady breathing and soft snores a comforting lullaby.

**tZt**

**A/N: End of chapter 1! Next section will be up soon, maybe even before you finish reading this. If you enjoyed, please click the lovely review button below, reviews make my day, and this is my first multi chaptered fic. :D Thanks for reading! **


	2. Night 3

**A/N: Here's the next part; hope you're enjoying the story so far. The chapters start to get a little longer from here on out; ironically I started this fic as a one-shot, but Tony and Ziva had so much more to say about this past summer. ;)**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed, I don't own anything.**

**tZt**

**3.**

The next evening, she manages to make it to her own apartment, and slowly attempts to resume a normal nightly routine. However, the darkness of her bedroom surrounds her, a stifling pitch black that plunges her back into the suffocating dust of the elevator; the evening silence echoes the sound of screeching metal; her own fingertips recall the sensation of his body beneath hers, clutching him close, a desperate attempt to shield him from the collapsing world. Tossing against the sheets, she wills her mind to quiet, but the latent fear presses painfully against her chest, the reality of their nightmare racing through her mind.

She's never been so relieved to hear the doorbell.

Tony greets her with a shy smile, his hand rubbing nervously against the back of his neck. He's disheveled, clothes rumpled and hair mussed from his own failed attempts at sleep.

"Hey," he begins softly.

"Hi," she returns, tugging anxiously at the hem of her shirt as silence falls between them, neither one certain of how to handle this second breach of the carefully constructed lines they have meticulously followed over the last seven years.

Shifting his weight listlessly, he gives a shaky laugh, "So I was just in the neighborhood…"

His eyes plead with hers, and she accepts the ruse gratefully, motioning him into the apartment with a wave of her hand, relieved that they do not need to discuss their real motives.

Because he hates admitting his own vulnerabilities and much as she does hers, and neither one of them is ready to admit that one deranged madman has robbed them of their own security.

He flops heavily onto her sofa as she grabs a pillow and blanket from the hall closet. No point in pretending he wasn't going to sleep here; setting them beside him, she continues the charade,

"You might as well stay, it is too late to be driving."

His eyes send her a grateful glance as she perches on the edge of the sofa, "Thanks."

She manages a weak smile in return, her stomach lurching slightly as she notes the angry red gashes still present at the edge of his hair line and chin, the bandage wrapped around a badly sprained wrist, all reminders of how easily their unthinking elevator journey could've gone horribly amiss. Forcing the thoughts from her mind with a shudder, she adopts a teasing smile.

"Also, since you still have a mild concussion, it is probably best that you are not left alone anyway," she states flippantly, "we can not have you calling everyone in the middle of the night to serenade them with Frank Sinatra."

He groans, "Aw, come on! That was one time! And there were painkillers involved!" He runs a hand across his face, "I'm never going to live that down."

"Nope," she chuckles, enjoying the way his eyes regain some of their normal sparkle.

He laughs before dropping his gaze to the brown fabric of the sofa, "I stopped by the hospital today," his voice turns soft, his eyes once again serious as they meet hers.

"Oh," she murmurs, reality crashing abruptly back into the moment, hospital turning from an innocuous term to an all too sterile white realism, a place whose morgue held too many colleagues' bodies and whose wings held even more friends and co-workers fighting to avoid an autopsy slab. She takes a steadying breath, hoping against more bad news, "And?"

"Well Gibbs finally convinced Abby to go home, sleep in a real bed for a change," Tony sighs heavily. The goth had barely left the hospital since the explosion, dividing her time between Ducky and McGee's rooms and the makeshift forensics lab NCIS had set up in the VA hospital basement to process evidence from the destroyed headquarters. "And the Duckman should be sent home tomorrow, the doc said he shouldn't need a bypass; he just needs less stress."

Ziva gives a morose laugh; less stress, the doctors certainly were ironic, "And McGee?"

He exhales loudly, leaning forward, resting his forearms against his thighs, a sad, despairing look in his eyes that makes her heart stutter painfully.

"Probie's tough, but…" he trails off momentarily, voice catching slightly, "but, the doc says he still needs more surgery. His vitals aren't stabilizing like they should."

She closes her eyes, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Tim had been the most injured of their quirky make-shift family unit, his torso a maze of glass shards and burns when he had collapsed just outside the building, injuries far worse than he had first believed. The younger agent still hadn't opened his eyes, and Ziva tried desperately to avoid considering the possibility that he might never.

Tony's face is blurred slightly as she opens her eyes again to meet his gaze, and she curses how easily tears come anymore. His eyes are too concerned, too caring; she feels her resolve waver.

"I have not been able to sleep," her confession rips through their fragile avoidance before she can stop the words, a few tears escape, a frustrated sigh spills from her lips.

"Yeah, me either," his replies softly, reaching over and taking her hand in his with a comforting squeeze.

She stares at their linked hands, dumbfounded. They don't usually touch in such a deliberate manner.

"I mean I just can't stop…" his voice is wounded, her gaze snaps back up to meet his.

"Neither can I," she agrees quietly, mildly relieved she isn't the only one haunted every time she closes her eyes, isn't the only one who keeps constantly replaying the six hours of darkness they spent trapped in their twisted metal cage, uncertain about the extent of their own injuries, the unknown fate of everyone else painting gore and tragedy in their minds.

They fall into a comfortable silence, and she tentatively runs a thumb across the back of his hand, enjoying the way his hand fits easily against her own. Funny, even when they were undercover, she has never once held his hand.

"Now, please tell me you have beer," he cracks lightly after a few minutes, easing them safely back into the carefully constructed bounds of their friendship with a sideways grin.

Chuckling, she extracts her hand from his, attempting to ignore the slight race of her pulse as his fingertips brush hers, and runs her fingers through her hair as she tries to remember the last time she went grocery shopping.

"Actually I do not; I have tea though," she offers, standing.

He makes an exaggerated face, "Blech, tea? Ziva, come on, you have to have something better than tea."

With a roll of her eyes, she makes her way to the kitchen, "There is also hot chocolate."

His excited yell echoes from the living room, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

The man had the tastes of a seven year old.

**tZt**

**A/N: Thanks for keeping up with me this far! Reviews are lovely.**


	3. Nights 10 & 15

**A/N: Told you these chapters would go up quickly! This might be the last chapter I upload until tomorrow, it's getting late over here. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, sadly.**

**tZt**

**10.**

Over the next week, their sleeping patterns become almost a game; every evening a study to see who will give up on sleeping alone first. They never discuss it, but without out fail they end up together; sometimes she on his sofa, sometimes he on hers. His soft snores and solid presence keep the darkness from conjuring up screams and explosions, dims the images of rubble and bodies.

Lets her know she's not the only one who is still alive.

She assumes they'll stop their game of musical sofas eventually. Time will pass, the search for Dearing will provide distraction, and new cases will mute the nightmares that plague them. A week or two more, and then they will revert to their normal routines, this week a trivial span of weakness they never openly acknowledge.

Yet when Tim flatlines twice during surgery the following Friday, Tony abandons pretense, inviting her home as they wait anxiously in the hospital waiting room. She doesn't hesitate with her answer.

McGee stabilizes.

His couch cushions start to smell like her perfume.

**tZt**

**15.**

"Tony you are being ridiculous"

"Seriously, Ziva, I'm fine."

Crossing her arms in front of her, she fixes a tired glare on her stubborn partner. Seventy-two hours with little sleep had led to a still elusive Dearing and an enraged Gibbs that had put them all on edge; not to mention Tony's ardent insistence the past week that she always take the bed had led to him complaining of a backache the entire time.

"No, you certainly are not fine. You have been complaining incessantly about your back," she continues adamantly, moving to stand directly in front of Tony. "You need to sleep in a bed. I will be fine on the couch."

"Really, that's not necessary," he pulls himself up from the couch with a wince. "I actually prefer couches."

She rolls her eyes exasperatedly, "You are grimacing! Clearly your back does not prefer couches."

"C'mon, DiNozzo's do not grimace. We're a stoic breed," he attempts capriciously, but yet another shift of his weight causes his face to twitch with pain. He gives a rueful chuckle, "Well most of the time at least."

Stepping forward she meets his stubborn green eyes with willful stare of her own, and for a moment they lose themselves in a silent battle of wills. Deja-vu tugs at the corners of her mind, dragging forth memories of Eiffel Towers and mis-booked hotel rooms.

Well, that solution had worked before.

With a frustrated sigh, she gestures emphatically toward her bedroom, her mind resolved, "Tony, just go the bedroom."

"Ziva, I told you I'm..."

Groaning she grabs his shoulders and turns him forcibly in the correct direction, "I will be there shortly."

His head whips around to stare at her as his mind desperately tries to catch her meaning, "You mean?" Comprehension dawns on his features.

She heaves a tired sigh, exhaustion seeping through her. "It is not like we haven't shared a bed before, and you are being difficult so…," she gives a half-hearted shrug, not bothering to finish the sentence.

His eyes soften as his gaze flicks across her weary features, "I really will be fine on the couch Ziva."

"I swear Tony, if I have to listen to you complain about your back one more time…," she grits out even as her anger begins to dissipate under his stare.

Chuckling, he lifts his arms in mock surrender, "Okay, okay, I'm going."

He shuffles down the hallway as she returns the blanket and pillow to the closet with a small smile.

Soft snores already fill her bedroom by the time she follows him a few minutes later, his tired body stretched across the left side of her bed, light brown hair barely sticking out above the duvet. Quietly sliding in beside him, she turns to face him, moonlight giving the room a pale din. In sleep, the weary lines on his face have smoothed, the tension carried in his jaw since the bomb exploded almost gone; mesmerized, she watches as he shifts further into the blankets, a muffled, content hum escaping his lips. Settling down against the pillow, she fights the sudden urge to slide closer, wrap herself around him, derive safety from his heartbeat.

She imagines he would be warm.

With a frustrated sigh, she forces herself to turn away, wills the impulse from her mind. They were not that type of partners, and she didn't want to have to explain to Tony why she'd suddenly decided to make him a human pillow. She didn't even fully understand the urge herself. Curling onto her side, she squeezes her eyes shut. She would just have to content herself with his presence; the insanity that had led to their current sleeping arrangements would eventually fade. Sleep slowly begins to claim her, his steady breathing an effective berceuse…life would resettle…her breathing slows….tomorrow she would be more adamant about taking the couch.

Five days later, the sofa blanket remains in the hall closet.

Her bed pillows start to smell like his cologne.

**tZt**

**A/N: Reviews are beautiful, and are in the shiny box just below! Thanks for reading!**


	4. Night 21

**A/N: Hi my lovely readers! Thanks so much to all who've reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! I'm so glad you're enjoying it. Here's the next installment in our favorite duo's summer.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed, I sadly do not own NCIS or anything related to it.**

**tZt**

**21.**

Three weeks after the world collapses when there are no more bodies to lay to rest, the hospital morgue cleared, the rest of their injured colleagues and friends now safe from death's reach, a memorial service is finally held; SecNav commissions a plaque for those lost, fifteen engraved names on a shiny metal surface, a paltry platitude compared to the brilliance of the souls who embodied those letters.

They gather at dusk to place it in the Navy Yard, an evening taps to commemorate a tragic end. Vance speaks, an eloquent flow of words she doesn't fully hear, her concentration too focused on the names before her, on how easily any one of their own names could have been among the lost. Construction crews work on the scarred headquarters building behind them, slowly rebuilding a new reality even while they still struggle to accept the loss of the old.

SecNav reads off the names, and a lone shot is fired into the sunset for each. Abby rests a heavy head on Gibb's shoulder, Ducky stands a stoic figure next to a red eyed Palmer, and McGee sits next to them, still wheelchair bound, only on reprieve from his hospital bed for this lone hour. Tony rounds out their makeshift family huddle, tense and silent next to her, anger swirling behind his green stare. She can feel the fury in the air between them, see it in the set of his jaw. He feels guilty, is taking too much of the blame on himself as usual, the anger and sadness present in him since they fell to the floor of that elevator finally beginning to seep through him.

The ceremony briefly pauses on Jonathon Cole's name, allowing a moment to explain the young man's actions in trying to diffuse the bomb, proving that sometimes even a villain can have a hero's moment. Each name makes her chest ache despairingly and Tony's shoulders tighten imperceptibly more.

When Delores Bromstead's name is called, she watches as Tony clenches his fists, swallowing harshly, his knuckles turning white. She remembers the misunderstood, lonely woman from the office Secret Santa two years ago; beside her, Tony's jaw clenches and she can practically hear his thoughts, self-blame for years of avoiding her in the office, for not saying more kind words.

He manages to hold everything in until the second to last name. Tessa Goldman, the name that breaks all their hearts; the youngest of Dearing's victims, only five, too close to the car as a day-care worker carried her from the building. Her name rings out across the yard, and she can feel the tension break as her partner's shoulders slump, hand running viciously over his face before resuming their clenched stance. Another child he couldn't save. With a deafening silence, he quietly slips away from the ceremony, only a concerned gasp from Abby and a rare openly worried glance from their silver-haired leader to mark his parting. She stands frozen in the wake of his anguish, torn between the desire to follow him, make sure he doesn't do anything destructive, and the knowledge that the last thing he wants right now is someone else to witness the true magnitude of his grief. They're eerily alike in that manner.

She watches him stalk across the Navy Yard, making a mental note to call his usual haunts and arrange a taxi; there's no way she'll see him again tonight. They both tend to prefer to mourn alone.

**tZt**

Needless to say, she's surprised to find him outside her apartment an hour later, sitting slouched against the wall by her door, head hanging dejectedly, gaze fixated on the carpet of her hallway.

"Hey," he raises his head at her approach, his voice is hoarse, his eyes rimmed in red.

"Hey," she returns, uncertain of what to do next, her own angered sadness coursing through her, a deep hatred for Harper Dearing, for the way he broke her family.

He sighs heavily, "I just couldn't…," he chokes on the words; a shaky hand worries the back of his neck. She realizes this is the first time she's ever seen him this close to breaking down.

When she first met him, she assumed life was a joke to him, that tragedy and set back rolled off his shoulders, little more than a blimp in his pursuit of the next day's excitement.

Seven years later, she's just beginning to realize he's a man for whom tragedy sinks in deeply; the kind of man who ran into burning buildings, who carried guilt that didn't even belong to him. A man that would take the pain of the world on gladly, if it meant he could prevent one more victim.

Funny how wrong her first impressions were about him. She usually found people easy to read.

But then, he'd always had a way of fraying her instincts, of getting under her skin.

Swallowing hard against a sudden lump in her throat, she gestures for him to stand, "Come on, Tony, let's go inside," she orders quietly, extending a hand to help him up. He places a limp hand in hers, and she pulls him to his feet before rummaging in her purse for the keys to her apartment. He follows her quietly into the apartment, his gait steady, breath devoid of any trace of liquor, not at all how he usually chose to grieve.

Maybe they are growing up after all.

Trailing after her into the bedroom, he sits heavily on the edge of the bed, a choked sigh escaping his lips.

"You were right."

She drops her purse onto the floor, a concerned gaze flicking over his bent form, "About what?"

"There's always another monster," her words echo back through him in the dim light of the room, deepen the ache in her chest.

"We are going to get Dearing, Tony," she throws his own words right back at him, but the syllables feel uncertain, a reminder that she doesn't know how this case will actually play out.

He flashes a pained smile at the floor, shaking his head slowly, "And what happens when we find a monster we can't beat?"

She sinks slowly onto the mattress beside him, a muffled sorrow cutting through her heart. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she struggles to find a response, but there are no words for this, and they've been far too lucky over the years to not wonder when the streak was going to end.

"I was surprised to see you here tonight," she admits after a span of silence, desperate to change the topic, decompress the hopeless panic surrounding them.

He chuckles lightly, "Yeah," he sends her a crooked smile, "well you did say we should start being more open. Thought I'd loop you in on the DiNozzo pity party."

Her stares at his profile in shock, honestly she didn't expect him to remember half of what they discussed during their time trapped in that elevator. His mild concussion had made his conversation sporadic and his comments seem even more of a tease. She'd made that specific comment when he'd started a particularly groggy conversation about the state of their partnership; it made her wonder what else he remembered.

Clearing her throat, she replied, "Yes, well, I was not sure if you remembered properly; your brain was quite sizzled after the explosion."

A burst of laughter escapes him, and his eyes snap up to meet hers with an affectionate gleam, "Scrambled, it's scrambled." And damn, she knew she got that one wrong, and she take offense at his laughter, but her mistake brings back some of the light to his eyes, eases the tension in his jaw just slightly. And it's just good to see him smile.

"Besides," he continues, a small grin spreading across his face, "concussed or not, it'd be pretty impossible to forget being trapped in an elevator with you."

At first, she assumes his comments must be a jab at her. She opens her mouth to respond, a teasing retort on her lips, but then his eyes catch hers, cause her words to stall; because he's looking at her the exact same way he did in the elevator -after her failed attempt to use his shoulders to gain access to the ceiling escape panel-all honesty, no holding back. Green orbs lock her gaze into his, a myriad of emotions swirling in their depths; affection, trust, and a swirl of others she's not sure she's ready to define, but they make her breath hitch, her heart pound in her ears. What was it he had said about the Earth moving?

Abruptly, he ends the moment, releases her with a sudden glance at the floor. Silence settles back around them, dispersing the charged air as the reality of the day that led them here replays through their thoughts. He clears his throat thickly, releasing a long sigh.

"I can't stop hearing their names, Ziva," his voice wavers slightly, the burdened sadness seeping back into the room.

"Me either," she exhales softly, reaching over to take his hand in hers, the impulse to comfort him stronger than their carefully constructed lines, "This is not your fault Tony."

He glances up to meet her gaze, a small disconsolate smile on his lips, "I know, I know…" he looks down at their linked hands, mirrors her actions from a few weeks prior and runs a thumb across her skin. "I just wish…," he swallows harshly, "I just wish, we'd figured out the clues a little sooner," and there it is, the real demon behind their nightmares. The knowledge that they were almost too late and fifteen people paid the price.

"Yeah," she squeezes his hand tightly, fresh guilt settles in between her ribs, "me too."

Silence falls between them, guilt and anguish permeate the space. She's not sure how long they sit there, only that after a while, they begin to speak. It's unclear who starts the conversation first, but once they start, the words keep coming, whispered truths in the darkened room. They speak of fallen coworkers, of fond memories, of their regrets over the case. Eventually, they manage to move the center of the mattress and lay down, but not once do they stop talking, and with each syllable she feels the deep-seated despair in her chest dissipate slightly. Eventually, dawn begins to filter through the curtains; they succumb to the exhaustion of the week.

His hand never leaves hers.

**tZt**

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be up later today! Reviews are lovely, and they make me smile, so I'd love to hear your thoughts if you enjoyed! One more day until the premiere!**


	5. Nights 30 & 46

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited this story! Hope you enjoy the next installment! We are less than 24hrs away from the premiere! *hugs***

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed**

**tZt**

**30.**

Dearing manages to slip away, disappearing silently into the ether; no trace, no clues. Gibbs' frustration is manic, a palpable anger that causes them to throw concerned glances at each other from across their makeshift bullpen in the temporary headquarters Vance has somehow strong-armed the FBI into lending them in their D.C. field office. A murdered Petty Officer shifts their focus away from Dearing's cold trail, infuses some sense of normality back into their day-to-day routine. Yet Gibbs continues to bark orders with a despairing fervor and no regard for humor, while Abby continues to throw herself into forensics and withdraw from herself with a desolate cynicism and McGee's desk is still empty while the younger agent remains on bed rest at home, reminding them that nothing is really all right beneath the surface.

Vance orders them all to crisis counseling. She sits in the room with the beady-eyed therapist for a good hour, speaking randomly, because really she has no clue where to even begin in the list of all the ways their lives have been turned upside down. The therapist nods, jots down notes, asks her how she's been coping when she's at home. It's the one thing she can answer automatically: home is fine.

Later, as uses her own set of keys to unlock Tony's apartment door, she realizes that home should really be the farthest thing from fine. She and Tony haven't spent a night apart in a month; haven't discussed how their lives beginning to mesh imperceptibly, their partnership practically domestic in the little downtime they've managed to have. Yet his presence in her evenings is the one thing that manages to feel normal, comfortable in the midst of so much chaos and change. She doesn't even want to begin to ponder the psychological reasoning behind it, isn't ready to hear a shrink tell her what a surely bad idea this cohabitation is.

His socks start to take up residence in her drawers; her jeans find their own hangers in his closet. She begins to wonder when reality is going to snap back into place.

**tZt**

**46.**

The nightmares catch up to her eventually. Much like the team catches up to Dearing again only two weeks later, at a Florida naval base where his handiwork is found just in time. Gibbs rushes to the scene with a fierce determination, and they scour the base for clues; however, evidence proves to be as elusive as the madman behind it, and they return to the base Navy Lodge only hours after they land, sweaty and exhausted. She manages to force herself into the shower before collapsing onto the bed, sleep claiming her almost instantly.

_Tick, tick, tick. Somewhere in the distance she hears the clock. A glance down at her hands tells her there is too much blood; blood everywhere. Light flashes around the room._

_Tick, tick, tick. Suddenly she's back in that damn metal box, debris everywhere, her partner lying on the ground._

_Tick, tick, tick. She rushes to his side; shakes his shoulder. He doesn't stir; she checks his pulse-there isn't one. She screams his name; he doesn't move._

_Tick, tick, tick. Gray gravestones surround her; the names blurred in the rain. A flicker of more light, and she's alone in the Navy Yard. The gold plaque bears six more names._

_Tick, tick, tick. "You killed them! You!," a young voice yells at her in a crowded Haifa market. Tali stands across the street at the bus stop. Fire falls from the sky._

_Tick, tick, tick. The bus stop is empty now; bodies fill the street._

_The clock stops._

She bolts upright in the bed with a tormented scream. Roaring fills the room, and panic courses through her veins as she grabs wildly for her sidearm. A loud boom sends her flying to the floor with a shocked gasp as she scrambles to cover her ears, squeezing her eyes shut against the terror pooling in her stomach. A whimper escapes her lips.

The noise stops. The sound of her racing heartbeat fills the room, and her mind struggles to make sense of what just happened. She takes a gasping breath, presses her forehead against the floor as a wave of nausea passes through her. She's at a naval base, her logical mind tries to rationalize with her terrified consciousness. Naval bases have fighter planes; fighter planes that produce sonic booms when breaking the sound barrier while performing flight drills. Her breathing steadies enough to dull the ringing in her ears; enough for her to realize someone is pounding at the in-room connection door.

"Ziva?," his worried voice filters through the partition, "Ziva, are you okay?"

Heat flushes her cheeks bright red, and she angrily curses herself for her reaction. She's trained for this, explosions practically a daily part of her life before she came to NCIS; she's not supposed to be falling to the floor when they occur. She clears her throat, wills her voice to remain steady. She's glad he's the only one of the team on the floor.

"Yes, Tony. I am fine."

"Bullshit Ziva," apparently she isn't doing a very good job of being convincing.

With an irritated sigh, she pulls herself off the floor and moves to the door, intending to confirm her well-being to Tony only before sulking back to bed. With a still shaky hand she wrenches the door open, revealing her disheveled partner standing behind it, an intense concern focused on her. He tilts his head to the side, studying her fervent attempts to hide her trembling hands and still her labored breathing.

"Sonic booms can be a bitch," he states finally, green eyes boring into hers, daring her to try to deny her momentary terror.

Her anger deflates, resolve wavers, "I noticed."

Wordlessly, he steps out of the doorway and motions her into his room. She follows gratefully, the anxiety lodged in her chest decompressing slightly. Crawling into one side of the bed, she sits upright against the headboard, twists her hands uncertainly as he climbs into bed beside her, fretful gaze never leaving her form, but his silence giving her space, allowing her to ignore the whole incident should she wish. The nightmare races back through her memory, twists fear through her stomach. She pushes back against the barrage of fear, wrenches her gaze up to meet his determinedly, but his stare is too caring, too warm.

"I thought you were dead," the words rip from her lips before she can stop them, a statement she swore she'd never admit. But his lifeless body burns an image in her mind, makes her feel irrationally desperate to affirm reality.

His face scrunches up bewilderedly, he hadn't expected her to say that, "Dead?" he scoots closer to her, brings a reassuring hand up to her shoulder, "Ziva it was just a dream. I'm fine."

"No," she grits out, shaking her head violently, tears burning her eyes as her mind conjures up the memory of the first few moments after the explosion. Tony beneath her, rendered unconscious from hitting his head against the door during their fall. "Not tonight." she swallows harshly, "That day…in the elevator." Blinking rapidly, she jerks her gaze toward the duvet, rubs furiously at her eyes.

He ducks his head to catch her gaze again, anxious green eyes urging her to continue. She takes a shaky breath,

"Right after the explosion…you…you," her voice wavers. God this was difficult to say. Clearing her throat, she forces herself to spit out the rest, "For about ten minutes you didn't wake up…. I tried, said your name. You were so pale from the dust, and I thought…" she trails off on an intake of air. She'd been certain she was trapped with his corpse; tried everything to get him to respond, even screamed his name.

"Ziva," her name rolls off his lips in a comforting caress, his hand shifts to cup her face, thumb stroking across her cheekbone as his eyes search hers, desperately trying to convey assurance, "Why didn't you tell me?"

She drops her from his, lets out a strangled gasp of air that causes him to pull her into his arms. "It was not important, you were fine," she placates, words muffled against the crook of his neck, "I reacted stupidly."

He rubs small circles against her back, smoothes her hair with his other hand, "You're right, I am fine, but regardless, I'm sure you weren't acting stupidly." Leaning back against the headboard, he pulls them further into a lying position, "If it were me, I'd have been terrified," he confesses softly, running a reassuring hand across her upper arm.

"I was," she admits, quieter still.

Silence falls between them as they lie in the darkness, admitted truths floating between them in the darkness. This is as honest as they've ever come to being with each other, and his words make her wonder to what extent he means them; makes her wonder if she should push farther, if they're even ready to find that truth out. In the end, she settles for twisting herself in his arms until she's lying with her head on his chest, his heartbeat a soothing confirmation of his presence. His hands run soporific lines against her arms and back; she finds herself absentmindedly drawing patterns with her finger against his chest.

"Ya know," he breaks the silence suddenly, causing her hand to still as she realizes its treacherous tracing. "I'm really disappointed I didn't get to see it though," there's a tease in his voice, and she can practically hear him smirking. "Imagine you there, all badass ninja, distraught over my unconscious body. It'd be such a great movie scene…," he trails off dreamily.

She delivers a well placed jab to his ribs, causing him to release a surprised "Oof!" before they both break into laughter.

She falls asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

**tZt**

**A/N: That's it for tonight folks! I'll post the remaining chapters tomorrow in a countdown to the season premiere! If you enjoyed, please click that lovely little review box below, reviews make me smile, and will help me power through tomorrow's editing! Thanks for reading!**


	6. Nights 57 & 72

**A/N: Less than 4 hours until the premiere! We're almost there guys! Until then, here's another chapter to get you through the wait. **

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed. **

**tZt**

**57. **

Harper Dearing's trail grows cold once again, much to Gibbs' fury. Vance tasks everyone not on a case with helping rebuild the digital file databases destroyed in the blast. Entering pages of case data is mindless, dull work, but it provides a much needed distraction from the limbo they currently find themselves in. The days pass, no new leads are found; Gibbs begins to make them drill down all the dead ends again, reviewing the evidence with a fevered tenacity, a single-minded determination to hunt the man down. She's pretty sure she's never seen their steely-eyed leader this affected by a case, running purely on bad coffee, looking ready to split at the seams. But then, Dearing has left them all frayed in their own ways, still unsteady, and she's not sure they'll ever fully regain their balance.

McGee returns to work on a Tuesday; he's restricted to desk duty only, but seeing him across the makeshift bullpen serves to push the Earth back onto its axis slightly, brings some of the cheerful tenor back into Abby's voice.

She finds it harder to keep her distance from Tony at night. Their stay in Florida has effectively broken down their meticulous barriers even further, and her traitorous subconscious craves his proximity even more, causing her body to shift closer to his as she sleeps. She wakes one night to find her torso pressed his, a heavy arm curled around her waist, his steady breath across her forehead. Cautiously, she removes herself from his arms, forces herself to the furthest edge of the mattress, feeling guilty for how much she instantly misses his warmth.

It becomes a constant struggle to stay on her side of the mattress.

**tZt**

**72. **

Surprisingly, it's McGee that first attempts to bring the team out of their slump, pull them back together again. Usually their resident Goth insists on team bonding, while the rest of them scramble to find an excuse, but this time it's Tim who is insistent upon a team dinner. "To celebrate life," he explains somewhat poetically, even staring down Gibbs passive aggressive resistance until he gruffly agrees to go. Tony jokes that the explosion has made their resilient Probie brave. She believes there is more truth to that statement than he realizes.

Two weeks after McGee returns to work, they all find themselves at dinner. Gibbs is present, sulking slightly at having giving in, but with an amused sparkle in his eyes as he watches them that hasn't been present since the attack. Abby begins to emerge from her funk, talks animatedly about connecting with her biological brother. Even Ducky makes it to the event, and Palmer can't seem to stop smiling. She watches them all around the table fondly, sends a silent thanks to the universe that they are all safe. It feels good to have her family back.

Jokes and stories are traded around the table, and Tim is right; this is a celebration of life, of the fact they are all still here, that Dearing tried but couldn't destroy them.

She hasn't heard this much laughter between them since before the attack.

After dinner, Abby drags the younger members of the MCRT team out for drinks and dancing. The bar is loud, the bass reverberates in her chest, and really all they want to do is fall into bed after the way Gibbs has been driving them relentlessly through every new lead, but Abby is smiling again and they are all high on the feeling of being reunited, so they follow her onto the dance floor, drink shots to Tony's birthday that had been forgotten in all the tragedy and chaos.

They stumble into her apartment at half past two, more from exhaustion than the effects of liquor-they are still on call- and on auto-pilot, they make their way to her bed, barely taking the time to remove their shoes before collapsing onto it. Maybe it's the two drinks she had, but she doesn't even consider moving away from him as he slides an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as sleep claims them.

She jerks awake in the early dawn at the sound of the garbage truck outside the apartment to find them still in the same position; her fingers loosely laced with his against her stomach. Slowly, she attempts to disengage herself from him, move to her usual retreat at the edge of the bed, when suddenly his arm tightens around her waist, pulls her back into him as his breathing shifts. He's caught her.

"You know," he says groggily, eyes still closed against the pre-morning darkness, "you don't have to move every morning. It's not like you're taking advantage of me." His words are laced with amusement, and slurred with sleep, and she imagines he most likely isn't fully awake. It's the only way to explain how he would be so bold as to continue to pull her closer, bury his face in her hair.

"Besides," he continues, hand rethreading lazily with hers, "you smell nice." She wants to laugh at his whimsical reasoning, but then he slides his nose along her shoulder, inhaling deeply, rests his forehead against her neck with a content hum. She freezes, heart pounding in her chest, confusion swirling in her mind as she fights the simultaneous urge to push him away, force them back into the safety of separation, and pull him even closer still.

Uncertainty pools in her stomach as she struggles to find an appropriate response. He's warm, solid, and damn him, she isn't supposed to feel this way, comforted and safe. He's her partner, her friend; what they are doing here should feel awkward, feel strange; she shouldn't want to run her fingertips along his hand; shouldn't want to curl her body around his because it simply feels right.

"What are we doing here Tony?" she whispers, as much to herself as to him; his proximity making her head spin slightly; her limbs feel heavy, lethargic as she fights the urge to simply give in, to relax in his embrace.

He gives a small sigh, his breath warm through the t-shirt. "Sleeping," he murmurs simply, as though it is the easiest question in the world—maybe it is- and then sleep reclaims him, and she lays in the darkness, arguing with her thoughts. She tries to convince herself to move away, replace the distance between then, but in the end it's a losing battle. His hand feels nice in hers, his breathing an even pulse between her shoulder blades, and frankly she isn't even sure why she's fighting this anymore. She falls back asleep against him in the early morning light until Gibbs calls, dragging them from each other with a new case.

They stop pretending to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

**tZt**

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are lovely, and a wonderful warm-up for liveblogging for the premiere!**


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